Fly Me To The Moon
by GrannyWeatherwax23
Summary: Harry'd spent seventeen years ignoring a few rather uncomfortable facts about himself, and he'd been quite happy doing just that. Obviously Malfoy would be the one to pop every bubble Harry'd ever built.
1. Fly me to the moon

**A/N: Eighth year fic, people. I hope you like it. Comments are love :)**

Harry was two bites into a particularly appetizing piece of treacle tart when Ron and Hermione turned up in front of him, smiling goofily. Hermione's hair was mussed beyond redemption, and Ron's lips had that unmistakably just- snogged look; they'd lost all apparent definition and had simply blurred into the skin around his mouth in a swollen pink mess.

Harry felt his treacle tart make a break for it. It was markedly less palatable on the way out. He swallowed it down, grimacing, and raised a fork in greeting. Ron and Hermione's horribly persistent need to suck face was getting very annoying now that he was single again.

"So why'd you skip dinner?" he asked- rather pointlessly, considering.

"Oh, homework." Ron said vaguely and clambered onto the bench beside Harry. "Are you going to finish that, mate?"

"No, you go ahead," said Harry, shoving his plate toward Ron. The sight of his two best friends post- "homework" had caused his appetite to retire to bed with a headache.

"Hermione, can you help me with that Potions essay?" he asked, turning to her and smiling as endearingly as he could. Potions was a damn sight more difficult without the Prin- Snape's book to help him.

"If you mean can I write it for you, then the answer's no, Harry Potter." Hermione had been completely and unsubtly ecstatic when Harry's true Potions expertise chose to reveal itself in his first Potions class without Snape's copy of Advanced Potion Making. He'd exploded a cauldron full of Shrinking Solution. Right in Slughorn's face.

"Please, Hermione?" Harry begged, giving her his best puppy- dog look.

"Oh all right," she said, relenting. "But I'm only looking it over, you have to do the work!"

"No problem. I'll write the whole thing, I promise." Harry smiled innocently and crossed his fingers behind his back. "Should we go now?"

"In a minute. I want some of this blueberry pie first, I'm _famished._" Hermione said, as she leaned across the table and pulled Ginny's plate toward her.

Ginny swallowed the piece of pie she was chewing on and sighed. "So I'm done eating, yeah?"

Harry grinned at her and jerked his head toward Ron, who was shoveling down his tart with a blissful expression on the bits of his face not consumed in the shovel- chew- swallow process.

Ginny giggled and smiled back at Harry, tucking a piece of her bright hair behind her ear. It had been two months since the break- up, and they were mostly okay now. Harry could talk to her without experiencing a severe urge to turn and bolt, and she'd stopped clenching her fists every time she laid eyes on him.

Neville tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned, leaning into him with a comfort she'd never quite achieved with Harry. Harry sighed and looked away, his gaze wandering over the rows of happy, laughing students. Some of them still had the black pall of grief hanging over them, in the lines around their eyes as they laughed or the twist of their lips when they passed the memorial by the lake. Now though, in this warm hall lit by the golden glow of several thousand magical candles and surrounded by the people they loved, everyone looked happy. Well. _Almost_ everyone. Harry paused at the Slytherin table, his gaze arrested by a pair of furious grey eyes boring holes in his face. Malfoy slanted his gaze away as soon as their eyes met, but Harry had already seen the barely concealed anger bubbling away in those pale grey depths. What was wrong with _him_?

Harry shook his head and turned as someone nudged him.

"Come on Harry, let's go," Hermione had finished Ginny's pie and was standing beside Harry and glancing at her watch impatiently. "If I have to look over your essay and finish my own too, we'd best leave now."

Harry nodded and got up, dropping a hand on Ron's shoulder as he left. Ron didn't even look up, the sod. Harry sighed. Treacle tart was his favorite pudding.

Hermione grabbed his arm and steered them toward the door, muttering anxiously about two and a half feet on dragon heartstrings as she went. They were almost past the Slytherin table when Malfoy's voice, sharp and jeering, rang out behind them.

"Where're you going, Potter? Isn't the Weasel going to be worried about you moving in on the Mud- Granger?"

Even through the red haze that was almost a pre- requisite whenever he was around Malfoy, Harry noticed the hastily reined in epithet. So Malfoy _did_ know which side his bread was buttered on.

"Sod off, Malfoy," said Harry, trying and failing to clamp down on the fast- rising tide of his temper. "Bit bored, are you? Now that Parkinson's ditched you and run for France?"

Malfoy went instantly, satisfyingly pink. "Pansy didn't run, she was _chased,_"he hissed, shoving back his bench and striding toward them.

For one exhilarating moment, Harry thought Malfoy was going to hit him, but he only swept past them, toward the doors.

"Yeah? By whom, the remains of your Death Eater scum? I bet they didn't like the fact that her father got off, did they?" Hermione made a distressed little noise and tugged at Harry's arm, but he was too far gone to care.

"No," Malfoy spat. "By your precious Order, actually. Dumbledore's legion of _angels_."

"Don't you bloody _dare_ talk about him, Malfoy, don't you-"

But Malfoy'd already yanked the door open and left the hall, disappearing down a dark corridor. Harry growled and shook Hermione off, ignoring the stares and the sudden deafening silence that had descended on the Great Hall. All he could hear was the pounding of blood in his ears and -as he took off at a run after Malfoy- the pounding of his shoes on the marble floor. He caught sight of Malfoy's pale head just as it turned into an old classroom at the very end of the corridor. Harry picked up his pace; slowing down just in time to avoid being hit in face with the door Malfoy'd just kicked shut.

Harry followed Malfoy into the abandoned classroom, and slammed him into the wall.

"What exactly is your fucking _problem_, Malfoy?"

"Fuck off, Potter," Malfoy, pale and shaking under him, looked unhinged. A thin sheen of sweat covered his skin, and his grey eyes glittered feverishly.

"I should have let them lock you up with all the other Death Eaters! Except you never did anything really evil, did you? And not because you had morals, either. Dumbledore was right about you, you're too cowardly to be a killer. No, you just slither and scheme and never actually do anything at all!"

Harry paused, panting, his vision coating everything in crimson. His elbow was starting to ache where he held it, pressed firmly against Malfoy's pale throat. He could feel the frantic flutter of Malfoy's pulse against his skin, and it took more control than he'd thought he possessed not to press down _harder_.

"Just fuck off," Malfoy said again, trying to wriggle out from under Harry's grip. Harry slammed him back, shoving his elbow deeper into Malfoy's warm throat. "You first," he spat. Malfoy growled and looked up, his eyes sparking with anger and some other, more elusive emotion. He opened his mouth, then, and said the three words Harry had never ever heard come out of it before.

"I'm sorry, okay? I'M FUCKING SORRY! I know I picked the wrong side! And by the time I figured _that_ out, it was already too late. Why don't you bloody get it Potter, you stupid, stupid cretin? I DIDN'T HAVE A CHOICE! I know that doesn't change anything, but he was going to kill me! He- he was going to kill mum."

Well. Harry certainly hadn't expected _that_. He eased his hold a little, feeling uncomfortably wrongfooted in the face of a screaming, spitting, apologizing Malfoy. Who, apparently, wasn't done.

"Dumbledore said he'd protect us, and then he was falling and I didn't even have time to_ think_. And then later when they took me home I saw Mother cry and I knew there was no more protecting. No more hope. Except sometimes- after Snape told the Dark Lord you were on the tower that night- sometimes I'd think _you _might-" Malfoy cut himself off abruptly, and flushed a dull dark red as he glared at Harry and refused to say another word. This close, Harry could see the shutters behind his eyes fall, and it annoyed him no end. What did he think, starting sentences that had no meaning anyway, and then _not finishing them_?

"I might what?" he asked angrily, pressing Malfoy further into the wall. "What on earth are you on about Malfoy, I don't understand you at all, I've never-"

But he didn't get the chance to explain exactly what he never, because his words were cut off right then by Malfoy making a frustrated noise -almost a snarl- and grabbing Harry's face. Harry gaped and then spluttered, hands flailing as Malfoy's pale, pinched lips swooped down onto his. Harry let out a strangled little sound; Malfoy swallowed it.

This, what was this, what was Malfoy doing, and oh God those were Harry's lips he was biting at, Harry's chin, and _ow_, that actually _hurt_. This wasn't a kiss, no, it was just Malfoy finally giving in to the little voices and cannonballing off the deep end. Which was perfectly okay, Harry'd seen this coming for seven years, but did it have to be _Harry's _neckhe sucked on like a mad vampire? His mouth was hot and wet and open, and Harry shoved at him, fingers scrabbling for purchase at his shirtfront – he had to get Malfoy off him, away from him, anything_._ But Malfoy stayed where he was, the stubborn bastard, and then – then Malfoy _licked_ him, a long warm stripe in the space between his neck and his shoulder. Harry's hands stilled without him realizing it, stayed clutching at Malfoy's shirt as a strange, unfamiliar little sound escaped his mouth.

Malfoy must have taken this as encouragement, because he blew on the wet skin, moving back up to Harry's mouth before Harry could even begin to get over the cold/sharp tingles running up and down the glistening trail on his neck.

Harry's whole body seemed to have frozen in place, refusing to obey any of the frantic orders his brain was sending it. His legs flat out _refused_ to move that crucial inch backward, and his hands were still stubbornly glued to Malfoy's shirtfront. Harry could only watch, helpless, as Malfoy's mouth -slightly reddened now- descended once more upon his, as if in slow motion. Lower, lower, lower…there.

The first time Malfoy had kissed him, _two minutes ago,_ he hadn't felt anything but shock, and a jolt that was sharply reminiscent of travel by Portkey. Now, trapped there by his own traitorous body, he could appreciate how soft Malfoy's lips were- softer than they'd ever looked curled around one of his habitual sneers.

They did not feel unpleasant.

Harry jerked backward, noise and movement and _sense_ returning in a rush as he shoved Malfoy away from him, hard.

"What the hell is _wrong _with you Malfoy?" he demanded, panting, one hand rubbing furiously at his mouth as if he could wipe away the last five -or ten, or fifteen- minutes.

Malfoy didn't say anything, but simply stood there with his mouth hanging slightly open and his grey eyes dark. There were two bright splotches of red high on his cheeks, and his hair was rumpled- the flickering torchlight caught at it, turning it to honey. He blinked once, and licked at his lower lip- slowly, absently. Harry followed the slight movement with his eyes; this made him even angrier.

"Seriously, what's wrong with you?" he asked again, snarling the words out.

Malfoy's eyes narrowed, and his lip curled. He seemed to visibly pull himself together; his body tensing once more, tightening out of its almost languorous slouch.

"Nothing you'd understand, _Potter,_" he spat before he turned and whirled out of the classroom.

Harry slumped to the ground, his back up against the wall. Malfoy was mad, mad, mad, and Harry was going to have to cut his own lips off.

***

It had been a week to the day since that _dreadful_ night, and Harry was severely sleep deprived. Every night so far had brought disquieting images of the slope of Malfoy's pale neck glistening with sweat or Malfoy's long, thin fingers as they fluttered over Harry's pulse. Harry'd barely slept a wink, consumed as he was with those nauseating memories. Obviously, they were nothing but the remains of a horrendously traumatic experience. Obviously.

Harry sighed and rolled over, staring at the moonbeam reflected on the fabric of Ron's bed curtains. Surely, _surely_, traumatic experiences shouldn't result in a week's worth of we- uncomfortably sticky dreams?

Bollocks. Harry was _not_ gay. There- there was Cho! And Ginny! And he'd been quite taken with Luna, too, for a few days in fifth year. Vaginas were an important and recurring characteristic in that list.

Harry cursed briefly and colorfully under his breath. Malfoy was such a complete _tit_. What had he been _thinking _to jump Harry like that?

All right, Harry knew what he'd been thinking- he _had_ been rather close to the very physical evidence of Malfoy's thoughts. But why on earth would Malfoy want to think mad, crazy, sparkling thoughts like that about _Harry?_ Harry hadn't even known Malfoy was bent until he'd been confronted rather forcibly with the evidence. And even now, he wasn't sure. Oh, it would be just like Malfoy to do something absolutely barmy like this for no reason other than to mock Harry about it for the rest of their natural lives. Harry could see the badges already: Potter the Poof! The Boy Who Lived To Molest Me. Of course it wouldn't bother Malfoy in the slightest that _Harry_ had been the completely unwilling molestee.

So that was it, then. There was only one thing Harry could possibly do, and it was the same thing he'd been doing since he was eleven years old. He'd have to fall at Hermione's highly perceptive feet and grovel until she threw him a few scraps of insight. He sighed the heavy sigh of one whose perception of the world has been scrambled worse than a Hufflepuff's brain on a windy day, and shoved his face as far beneath the pillow as it would go.

Everything was Malfoy's fault. And how very new and surprising _that_ was.

***

Hermione proved, yet again, that she was as omniscient as the next god.

"Of course Malfoy's gay, Harry, didn't you know?

"What? No I didn't know! How on earth was I supposed to know- it's not like I kissed the git or anything!" Harry spluttered, before turning bright red and subsiding into mumbled complaints about not getting any memos.

"Right. I'm sure you haven't, Harry, but nevertheless, Draco is homosexual. Quite openly so, actually. One might even say he's as gay as a pair of pink argyle socks, and the socks have been on since fifth year. That was when he very publicly hooked up with Blaise Zabini. It was during a game of Fire My Whiskey, I believe. My Arithmancy study group was rife with tales of canoodling on the common room carpet- _not_ the sort of behavior one would expect from a prefect, even one from Slytherin," Hermione said, looking disapproving.

Harry gaped, his mouth opening and shutting in a perfect imitation of the goldfish Dudley received as a seventh birthday present and then promptly stepped on during the subsequent 'more presents!' fit.

"Why wasn't I told? Honestly Hermione, you can't just spring something like this on me! I mean, Malfoy, _gay_… it's- it's preposterous, it is!"

"Not really," said Hermione, idly polishing her fingernails. "He _was_ the only boy in the castle to subscribe to _Witch Weekly._ I even heard that he special- ordered the full color supplement they did on Puddlemere United in their underpants. "

Harry blushed bright pink for one mortifying moment as he remembered finding that very same supplement under Ginny's bed. The underpants had been in team colors. Harry'd always been rather partial to sky blue.

"Well why didn't I know about this? You make it sound like everyone in the castle knew which side of the Quidditch pitch Malfoy flies on!"

Hermione snorted. "Harry, in our fifth year you were being possessed by Voldemort, reviled by the wizarding world, hounded by Rita Skeeter and, frankly, you've always been a tad self- involved. So Malfoy's orientation slipped you by- why are you so fussed about it _now_?

"Because- because- just _because_, Hermione!" Harry said, feeling quite out of sorts about the whole thing. He wasn't self involved!

"Harry," Hermione said, her brown eyes taking on an unpleasantly shrewd cast. "There was one other rumor floating around in fifth year that I doubt you've heard- no I'm sure you haven't heard this one; if you had we'd all be dead because your head would've exploded at fifteen and Voldemort would've won the war. Would you like me to tell you what it was?"

Something smug and knowing in Hermione's tone zoomed past her relatively innocent words and hit Harry's hindbrain in the face. Cold horror coiled about his spine, and Harry had to clamp down hard on the urge to curl up in a ball and whimper.

Sharp teeth, and pale skin, and fists clenched so tight they hurt…

"Erm… no?" he said hopefully.

"That was a rhetorical question. I'm going to tell you anyway," said Hermione. Anticipation positively crackled about her. Or maybe that was just her hair.

Harry shut his eyes briefly and mumbled "please don't," very softly. Hermione, if she'd heard it, gave no indication of the fact.

"So after Malfoy dumped him at the end of fifth year, Zabini went about telling anybody who would listen that Malfoy had a crush on _you._ He seemed to think that all those fights you two kept having were just- oh, misdirected sexual tension. Pulling each other's pigtails, as it were. Nobody really belived him though- I mean, obviously it was just sour grapes, right?" Hermione was working very, very hard to keep her voice light, but Harry'd known her for far too long to miss the note of barely concealed glee.

"What? That's bollocks! Malfoy doesn't like me! He hates me!" Harry said, as indignantly as he could under the circumstances. Malfoy had had a _crush_ on him?

Hermione sighed heavily, and gave Harry a Speaking Look. It said, quite clearly: The Time For Games Is Over, Mister.

"Harry," she said, in a pained sort of voice. "You have a _hickey_. On your neck. That I have been looking at for the last week- yes, there. Covering it up with your collar _now_ won't do you any good, will it? Anyway, Malcolm Baddock told me that Malfoy came back from that –here Hermione hooked her fingers into unnecessarily sarcastic air quotes- "fight" you two had looking – and these are Malcolm's words, not mine- like something heavy had landed on his head and then ravished him. And now you're hanging off my every Malfoy's- sexual- orientation related word? Please. Are you going to tell me what's going on or do I have to _force it out of you_?"

Harry gaped. Hermione was wearing an expression that suggested that she was quite capable of forcing anything out of anyone, and might even be prevailed upon to enjoy it. A sudden, disquieting image of Hermione and a lot of leather assailed Harry, and he shuddered.

"Well?" Hermione asked, one terrible foot tapping against the floorboards. Harry felt whatever fight he'd had left in him wave goodbye and go off on a holiday to Hawaii.

"You have to promise never to tell Ron," he said, abandoning all hope of intrigue, ever. "I mean it, Hermione, he can never find out."

"Don't fuss, I won't tell him." Hermione said, flopping down onto the nearest couch and propping her chin up in her palms. Her eyes shone with an expectant light and Harry was impressed; she'd gone from Scary Mistress of Pain to Parvati Patil Scenting Gossip in under two seconds.

"Um, well… Ah, that is to say- so basically what happened was- yesterday, right," said Harry, his gaze locked firmly on his left sneaker.

"Spit it out, Potter!" said Hermione.

"Okay! Malfoy kissed me, all right?" said Harry, raising his eyes to Hermione's and scowling. "It was- I don't even know _what _it was, one minute he was saying something completely insane and being his usual demented self and the next he was- well, he was still being demented, but with kissing!"

Hermione let out a rather un- Hermione-like whoop and yelled "I knew it!"

"Knew what? I didn't know anything! How did you know it? And keep your voice down!" said Harry.

"Okay, firstly, you not knowing something doesn't affect _my_ knowledge of it, _thank the Lord_. And secondly, I know because Malfoy's been whining for your attention since we were eleven years old! Forgive me for noticing what's making derogatory badges in front of me!" said Hermione.

"Okay, the badges were a bit weird, I'll give you that, but he made them because he hated me!" said Harry.

"Oh _Harry_," said Hermione, in tones of gentle exasperation. "Malfoy doesn't hate you. Malfoy _wants _you. And Harry, love, I think it's about time you accepted certain things about yourself."

"What? What are you talking about- what things?" Harry spluttered.

"Harry, how did it feel? When Malfoy kissed you, how did it feel?" said Hermione.

"Like a bad, bad violation of my personal space?" said Harry, but he could hear the hesitation in his voice, and he'd bet his last knut Hermione could too.

"Really? _Really?" _she said, sitting up and crossing her arms over her chest. For a minute Molly Weasley flickered into horrifying existence, and then it was Hermione again. Which wasn't much better, really.

"No," Harry said in a small voice. He could feel his sweaty, one- fingered grip on sanity start to slip, and it was not a pleasant feeling. "It felt… it felt good."

"Okay," said Hermione in a completely neutral, accepting tone of voice. Harry could just tell she was crowing inside her head. Some things didn't change.

"Hermione, am I gay?" asked Harry, dreading the answer.

"You know that better than I do, Harry. But I think you might be, and Ginny certainly thought so when you broke up. She said she'd caught you staring at Zacharias Smith's arse more times than she'd care to remember."

"Ah," said Harry. His blush was almost a physical presence at this point.

"Harry," said Hermione, and paused. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath before continuing. "Malfoy's changed. He's not as much of an arrogant little toerag as he used to be, anyway. The war- it changed us, all of us. Even Malfoy. He's never been a killer, _you_ know that. And I've talked to him this year- a bit, you know, at prefect meetings and things. He knows the difference between hisbeliefs and his father's beliefs. He didn't before, but he does now."

"Yeah," said Harry, rather at a loss for words. Was this Hermione giving him her blessing? He wasn't even sure he was gay! "But what about what he said at dinner last week? You heard him, he was insulting you! He almost called you a you- know- what!"

"Oh please," Hermione scoffed. "He hasn't called me that in ages. If you'd paid attention to the situation instead of running off to beat his face in, you'd have seen that he was baiting _you,_ not insulting me."

Harry ran over everything Malfoy had said before shrugging sulkily and letting out a noncommittal sort of noise that might possibly, if you listened very carefully, have resembled the words "I suppose so,".

Hermione laughed and gave him a hug. "Don't worry, Harry. I promise everything will be just fine. Besides," she said, her eyes beginning to twinkle mischievously. "Malfoy _is_ extremely fit. All that hair, and those lovely eyes of his- you could do worse, is all I'm saying."

"Hermione!" Harry squeaked, scandalized. "Ron would've gone positively postal if he'd heard you say that!"

"What?" she said innocently. "I do have eyes, you know."

***

Harry was bent so far forward he was lying practically flat out on the polished wooden shaft of his Firebolt. The wind was whipping his hair into his eyes and his forearms were polka dotted with goose bumps, but his heart was racing and he couldn't seem to keep the smile off his lips. He bent forward another millimeter and whooped softly as he felt the familiar rush of air and adrenaline. It had been a long time since he'd done this; flown just for the sheer joy of it. Harry straightened up slightly and grinned as he felt the Firebolt respond, instantly pulling him out of the steep dive he'd been in. He coasted for a while, climbing steadily higher, until Hogwarts was no more than a dot in the distance and all he could see for miles around was green. He'd missed this.

Flying helped Harry- well, not _think_, exactly, but something about zooming about in the rarefied heights of wizarding Scotland stripped his mind clean of all the little worries and fears and what ifs that'd edged his consciousness and choked every attempt he'd made to "accept certain things about himself" as Hermione -who _didn't_ have the emotional range of a teaspoon- had put it.

Harry knew he was attracted to boys. He hadn't much wantedto accept _that_ particular fact, and what with all the crazed psychopaths who'd been after him pretty much since he was born, he'd managed to escape confronting it for seventeen years. But the war was over now, and it was time, really, to pick an orientation, _any_ orientation. He was reasonably sure he still liked girls, but what he'd felt when Malfoy kissed him was… strange. And exciting.

Harry wanted more.

And Malfoy- Malfoy liked him, didn't he? Or at least liked him enough to jump him in abandoned classrooms. Harry wasn't so sure how he felt about that bit. Ron was his best mate, Hermione was the sister he'd never had, Voldemort was evil, and Malfoy was an annoying little git. That was the way the lines of his world were drawn, and now they'd blurred and faded and nothing was clear anymore.

If Harry had to be completely truthful though, he'd have to admit that Malfoy was- arresting. There was something about him -even when he was at his petulant, bratty, spoiled little prince best- that made you want more. He had a sort of shine about him that drew people in, even when they knew he was only going to mock them for it.

And Hermione was right. The war _had_ changed them. Harry remembered, almost against his will, a familiar bathroom. He remembered Malfoy, laid open on a wet stone floor, his thin, pale hands scrabbling pathetically at his chest as his pure blood bloomed red in the water. He remembered Myrtle, floating above their heads with her ghostly hands pressed to her cheeks and her lips stretched wide in a silent shriek. Harry'd stood there, shocked and panting and shaking so hard he thought he'd come apart, right there, right next to Malfoy who _was _coming apart. Malfoy's eyes had been wide, terrified, and he'd been looking right at Harry as his bony, emaciated body shuddered and convulsed and let out more blood than Harry knew people had. And then Snape had come, and he'd sung Malfoy's body shut and Harry had run. Run and run and run, and hidden his book and shoved away the blood still spurting in his head. He'd never stopped to think about that day- it had been so much easier to bury himself in Ginny's warm smile and bright, sweet- smelling hair and just forget.

There were other memories, too, and Harry's hands clenched around the broomstick as his mind threw them at him in an unending volley of fear and blood and sweat and pale white hair. Malfoy, bragging and shaking on the tallest tower, holding two wands- one willow, one hawthorn. The willow wand had slipped from his hand, clattered to the ground as he watched Dumbledore fall through the night, his long robes streaming purple in the sky.

Later now, much later. Malfoy Manor in the gloom, albino peacocks strutting past Harry as he stumbled through the grounds wearing a mask of swollen flesh. Malfoy standing so close he could smell the fear coming off him as he peered into Harry's eyes and lied.

The Room of Hidden Things as it blazed, fiery nightmares swooping all around them and Malfoy's long fingers digging into Harry's flesh as he pushed and strained them away from certain death.

The Trials, and Malfoy's pale, pinched face as he'd testified that yes, he took the Mark of his own free will. His blank eyes as he politely thanked Harry for telling the Wizengamot what his mother had done in the forest and what he'd done in his drawing- room.

Oh yes. The war had changed them all. Malfoy wasn't the same boy who'd spun and twisted in the air with a Remembrall clutched in his hand anymore than Harry was the same boy who'd turned a full, awed circle as he stepped into the Great Hall for the very first time. They'd grown up, and they'd done it without either of them really noticing.

Well maybe it was time to notice. Who knew? It might even be fun.

Harry grinned involuntarily and turned, beginning the long ride back to the quidditch pitch.

***

Malfoy was an annoying arse who'd apparently dropped off the face of the earth. Harry had looked everywhere there was to look and he wasn't _anywhere._ He'd gone to the Great Hall, the owlery, the Slytherin common room- even the prefect's bathrooms, but Malfoy wasn't to be found.

Harry cursed as he trudged up the millionth staircase today. Where on earth could he be? This was so typical of him; _obviously_ Malfoy would decide to disappear just as soon as you decided to look for him. He'd been painfully present all last week when Harry'd been trying to avoid him, and now that he actually _wanted_ to see him, he was the sodding Invisible Man.

Harry's feet had started to ache something nasty as he walked down yet another endless corridor on the third floor, looking in every empty classroom there was. He was halfway through the corridor when inspiration struck and made him clap his hand to his forehead.

"I am so incredibly stupid," he mumbled, and broke into a sprint. He raced up four flights of stairs, skidded down two corridors, and stumbled past a third year Charms Club meeting before stopping in front of a familiar patch of blank wall. Harry wasn't even sure the Room would work anymore, but this was the last place left to look in.

_I need a place to hide, a place to hide, a place to hide…_

Harry paced, concentrating as hard as he could, and then there it was: the broad wooden door, only a little singed near the edges. Harry took a deep breath, his skin prickling, and opened it.

The cathedral- sized room itself was unchanged; its high windows still sent shafts of mottled sunlight down upon a city of junk. The teetering columns of illicit treasure, however, had been ravaged by the Fiendfyre. Piles of charred and blackened furniture littered the floor, and mounds of ash rose out of the darkness everywhere. A rusty suit of armor lay at Harry's feet, scorched and half- melted. Harry kicked it aside with a clang, and saw a flash of platinum out of the corner of his eye. He whipped around, peering into the gloom, but it had disappeared.

"Malfoy!" he called. "Malfoy I know you're in here! I need to talk to you!"

But Malfoy (if he was even there) didn't come out. Harry sighed, fed up to the teeth with the whole thing, and was seriously considering just giving up and leaving when Malfoy stepped out from behind a large birdcage. It had been partially covered by a rather nice unicorn tapestry, which explained why Harry hadn't seen Malfoy through the bars. He could see him now, though, and he was struck instantly by the two- parts uncomfortable, one- part electrifying realization that Hermione had been right; Malfoy _was_ rather fit.

His soft- looking grey T- shirt clung to his lean frame, and his pale hair fell into his eyes, shadowing them. There was a light flush cresting his cheeks, and even his sneer looked uncertain rather than unpleasant.

"What do you want, Potter?" he asked brusquely. His whole body was held tense, rigid. He looked poised to run.

"Erm," said Harry intelligently. He hadn't actually thought this far ahead. What _was_ he planning on saying to Malfoy?

"Yes, very interesting, Potter, but I have places to be, people to meet- and none of those people are you, I'm afraid. _If_ you'll excuse me," Malfoy said, making to leave.

"No! Malfoy, wait, I really do need to talk to you," said Harry, grabbing his wrist. Malfoy's eyes went wide and he yanked it away, stepping back and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Go on, then," he said coolly. "Talk."

"Right, yeah," said Harry, raising a hand to the back of his neck as he felt his face flush. "So um, remember last week? You- er, you kissed me,"

"Yes," said Malfoy, going white and defensive. "I did. So what?"

"Nothing! I was just um, I was just wondering why you… did that?" said Harry, feeling like the stupidest person alive.

"I don't know! Maybe all the stress I was going through while you _cut off my air supply _addled my brain. It might even have caused irreversible damage, Potter, you're lucky I'm not suing you," said Malfoy, slightly hysterically.

"Shut _up_, Malfoy," said Harry. "Why did you _do_ that? You hate me!"

"Yes, of course I do, Potter. And maybe that's why I did it. It was probably all part of my big evil plan to violate your perfectly heterosexual sensibilities and drive you to suicide. Yes, that's definitely it. Okay? Are you happy now? I gave you a reason, so may I please leave?" Mafoy's voice rose painfully high on the last words, and he coughed, glaring at Harry.

"No! Malfoy, stop being such a tit and tell me what's going _on_!" Harry yelled. Frustration was fast overcoming embarrassment; why on earth had Malfoy ever learned to talk?

Malfoy glared for a second more and then deflated. "Nothing, Potter, there's absolutely nothing going on," he said tiredly. "We had a microsecond of crazy, adrenaline- induced kissing, and then you pushed me away. Which was all perfectly fine, you did the right thing; I'd never have kissed you if I was even two feet from sane. And no, you shouldn't worry about your sexuality, I'm sure you're perfectly straight- after all, Potter the Hero can't possibly be bent."

Harry stared at Malfoy. He looked crumpled, defeated even, and his eyes were fixed firmly on the spot just behind Harry's left ear. Harry took a deep breath and threw caution to the winds.

"See that's the thing, Malfoy, I don't think I am," he said carefully. "Straight, I mean."

Malfoy's eyes whipped around to meet Harry's for one shocked second, and Harry heard his sudden sharp intake of breath. Then he grabbed the reins of his control once more, and pasted an entirely disinterested look onto his face.

"How nice for you, Potter," he drawled. "I'm sure the fanboys will be lining right up. But whatever will the Weaselette say?"

"Ginny broke up with me two months ago," said Harry matter- of- factly. "But that's not the point, Malfoy."

"Oh?" said Malfoy, unable to keep the waver out of his voice. "What is, then?"

"When you kissed me last week," said Harry, aware of the fact that his face had turned into a tomato, but pressing on anyway. "I- I think I liked it Malfoy. I think I like _you_. And… I think maybe you might like me too?" Harry asked, his voice cracking embarrassingly.

Malfoy made a choked sort of sound and gaped at Harry. He appeared to have lost the ability to speak.

Finally, he opened his mouth and croaked "What?"

Harry just shrugged. "Well do you?" he asked. At this point, he could light a candle off his cheeks.

"No!" Malfoy cried, looking positively shaken.

"Oh," said Harry, rejection pooling hot and shameful in the pit of his stomach. _So why'd you kiss me, then?_ But no. That would be pathetic, and Harry had had enough humiliation for one day."Okay. I won't bother you anymore," he said, turning to leave.

He was halfway to the door when Malfoy's voice rang out behind him, piercing in the silence.

"Potter, wait!"

"Yes?" said Harry, turning around slowly. Was Malfoy planning on rubbing it in?

But Malfoy did not look malicious or gleeful. He was biting his lip, and his eyes flickered over Harry's face; up to his eyes and down to his lips and then back up to his eyes again.

"Were you serious?" he asked, in an edgy sort of voice. "When you said you liked me, were you serious?"

"Yeah," said Harry, feeling the beginnings of hope curl warm about his heart. "Yeah, I was."

Malfoy looked down, then, and twitched his hand. Harry watched as Malfoy's left shoelace retied itself. Malfoy still hadn't looked up. Harry's heart sank and he made to leave, already fantasizing about a nice long broom- ride over the Black Lake, during which he would try his best to forget this day ever happened.

"I might _possibly_ like you too.' Malfoy said, his voice so soft Harry almost missed it.

Harry turned, an incredulous grin stretching his lips. Malfoy's eyes when they met his were very wide, slightly wary, and impossibly warm.

"Really?" he asked, not caring how pathetic that made him sound.

"Yes," said Malfoy, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. He moved forward a little, until he was only a few inches away from Harry. "Really."

"That's good to know," said Harry, moving in even closer. At this distance he could see every tiny fleck of blue in Malfoy's smoky grey irises.

"Don't get your hopes up, Potter. I still hate you," said Malfoy, and kissed him.

Harry made a small, involuntary sound and grabbed Malfoy's shoulders, kissing him back. _This_ kiss was entirely different from the first one. The first had been clumsy and confusing and panicked; _this_ was electric.

Malfoy's lips were nudging at his own and Harry opened up, seeking out the slick heat of Malfoy's tongue in his mouth. Malfoy was long and warm and hard against him, separated only by a cotton- thin barrier, and Harry pushed forward, wanting more and closer and _now_. Their bones were in the wrong places and there was no flesh to soften the press of their hips against each other, but white heat was searing through Harry's veins and this was _perfect_.

Harry pulled his lips away from Malfoy's and dipped his head down, trailing his teeth over the soft skin of Malfoy's neck- dragging them over his Adam's apple. He nipped lightly at the curve of it and Malfoy shuddered, letting out a long, keening sound that sent the blood thundering through Harry's veins. And then Malfoy was moving, twisting, grabbing Harry and shoving him backward until he hit the door. He cracked the back of his head on the wood and his shoulders twinged where Malfoy's nails were digging into them, but Harry didn't care. Malfoy was sucking on the skin between Harry's neck and shoulder and his lips were making glass- shards of pleasure rip through Harry's stomach.

Harry fisted his hands in Malfoy's hair and yanked, panting and moaning as he pulled Malfoy's mouth back up to meet his and oh, _this_ was a kiss. They bit and licked and sucked at each other's lips, twining their tongues together until Harry couldn't tell where his mouth ended and Malfoy's began. He was breathing Malfoy's air, tasting Malfoy's skin, knocking his chest against Malfoy's with every shuddering breath.

Malfoy broke away from Harry for a moment, panting and looking up at him through eyes slitted by lust. His lips were pink and spit- shiny, and two bright spots of colour glowed at the tops of his cheeks.

"Lord, Potter," he said, and his voice was just a whisper. "Don't tell me the Weaselette taught you how to do _that_."

Harry snorted, rolling his eyes even as his hands pulled Malfoy back toward him. "No," he said huskily. "Must be something about you."

Malfoy grinned and leaned in. "Potter," he said, and Harry felt the words against his lips before he heard them. "It's _everything_ about me."

***


	2. And in your eyes, I'll forget myself

**A/N: That first kiss, through Draco's eyes.**

Draco strode into the abandoned classroom and kicked the door shut, hoping Potter would take a hint and just leave him the fuck alone. No luck there, however. Almost before the door could connect with the jamb, Potter had shoved it open again. He rushed in, black ball of fury that he was, and slammed Draco painfully into the nearest wall.

Draco struggled to keep the 'ow' that was threatening to trip off his tongue contained.

"What exactly is your fucking _problem_, Malfoy?" Potter demanded. His own personal, patented Potter brand of righteous anger had flushed his cheeks an enticing shade of pink. Draco was uncomfortably aware of just how close Potter was. He shook his head slightly and tried to focus on the elbow currently cutting off his air supply rather than the distracting flecks of gold in Potter's emerald irises.

"Fuck off, Potter," he managed weakly.

That turned out to be entirely the wrong thing to say. Potter's lips curled into a snarl as the righteous anger turned instantly to murderous rage. Draco felt his spine- already a neurotic, easily frightened thing- pack up and leave the premises.

"I should have let them lock you up with all the other Death Eaters! Except you never did anything really evil, did you? And not because you had morals, either. Dumbledore was right about you, you're too cowardly to be a killer. No, you just slither and scheme and never actually do anything at all!" Potter yelled, spit flying everywhere.

Draco flinched. Potter was right of course, he'd spent the last two years frightened and hiding, clutching desperately at anything that didn't look too threatening. By rights Draco should have been in Azkaban right now, starving to death as despair sucked the life out of him. It had been Potter – and oh, what a degrading thought that was- who'd spoken up for him, testified that rather than being an evil minion of the Dark Side, Draco was quite simply the most incompetent excuse for a Death Eater in existence. Draco shrunk a little at the thought, hot shame creeping up his neck. He tried to wriggle out from under Potter's warm grasp, shoving futilely at the viselike grip Potter had on his neck.

"Just fuck _off,"_ Draco snarled in frustration when his best efforts proved fruitless. Potter reacted instantly, shoving his elbow in even harder and moving in far, far too close for Draco's comfort. "You first" he spat, and Draco inhaled sharply. This close, he could count the freckles spattered across Potter's nose and the scent of Potter's skin (sweat and treacle and grass) was making him dizzy in a way he did not like at all. Anger spiked sharp and hot in Draco's chest; robbing him of his last reserves of calm. Bloody Potter. Just who did he think he was, anyway?

"I'm sorry, okay? I'M FUCKING SORRY!"

Wait, what? Draco was pretty sure he hadn't meant to say the words 'I'm' and 'sorry' anywhere near Potter, ever, but his mouth appeared to have disconnected from his brain.

"I know I picked the wrong side! And by the time I figured _that_ out, it was already too late. Why don't you bloody get it Potter, you stupid, stupid cretin? I DIDN'T HAVE A CHOICE! I know that doesn't change anything, but he was going to kill me! He- he was going to kill mum."

Draco was vaguely aware of the fact that Potter had backed off a bit and was indeed beginning to look rather sheepish, but he was too caught up in his rant to care.

"Dumbledore said he'd protect us, and then he was falling and I didn't even have time to_ think_. And then later when they took me home I saw Mother cry and I knew there was no more protecting. No more hope. Except sometimes- after Snape told the Dark Lord you were on the tower that night- sometimes I'd think _you _might-"

Draco caught himself just in time, biting down hard on his own tongue just to fucking shut himself up. What in the name of Merlin had he been about to _say? _He schooled his features carefully blank- something he'd become quite adept at doing after a year spent living with Aunt Bella. Potter, on the other hand, looked like he didn't quite know _what_ to do with his face. His expression shifted rapidly from anger, to shock, and then back to anger again.

"I might what?" he asked, apparently settling on anger and shoving Draco further into the wall. "What on earth are you on about Malfoy, I don't understand you at all, I've never-"

And when had it mattered, that they didn't understand each other? When had that ever stopped Draco from trying, one way or another, to get Potter's attention? Never. A random sense of despair swept over Draco, dragging the fight out of his muscles. He'd been trying old tricks and new tricks, ever since he was eleven, and nothing had ever worked. The strongest emotion he could evoke in Potter was, apparently, anger.

_Well, fuck that._

Something made of rage and heat and insanity exploded in Draco's veins, and before he knew what was happening he'd surged forward and caught Potter's face between his palms, smashing their mouths together. Potter squeaked into Draco's mouth, and Draco took the opportunity to run his tongue over Potter's upper lip. Potter tasted of shepherd's pie and pumpkin juice, and something else- something surprisingly sweet that lay just under the taste of tonight's dinner.

Draco wanted more of it.

Potter was yelping and flailing under his hands -anger quite forgotten in the face of Draco's assault on his maiden virtue- but Draco didn't care. He couldn't stop, didn't _want_ to stop. He moved his mouth down, tracing the line of Potter's jaw, feeling the faint scratch of stubble scrape his lips, nipping lightly at Potter's chin. Potter's skin tasted as good as his lips did, and Draco was lost. He tilted his neck, sucked at the hot, pulsing skin of Potter's throat, and moaned softly. Potter's skin was so smooth, so soft. Draco trailed his tongue down past Potter's neck, licked lightly at the edges of his collarbone and paused. Potter, who'd been flailing and protesting quite vehemently, had gone still. His fingers were still clenched tight around the fabric of Draco's shirt, only instead of shoving him away they were holding him in place. Draco's heart skipped one exhilarated beat and pleasure leaped warm and liquid in his belly, shooting stars across his vision. He blew on the stripe of wet skin at the base of Potter's throat and couldn't suppress a grin when Potter shuddered involuntarily.

Draco moved back up to Potter's mouth, catching his lips in a searing kiss that was, if not returned, at least allowed. He licked gently at the corner of Potter's mouth, and Potter's lips parted, very slightly. Draco could feel Potter's hot breath on his face, and his vision blurred. He moved in, pressing small, soft kisses to the swell of Potter's lower lip- and for a fraction of a second, Potter's warm, wet tongue responded, slipping out to nudge at Draco's own. Draco shuddered; sharp tingles of pleasure were running up and down what felt like every nerve ending he possessed.

And then, before Draco could even begin to melt into a puddle of uncontrolled lust, he was shoved unceremoniously backward, his feet slipping on the stone floor and making him stumble.

Potter's eyes blazed with fury, and for a second, Draco thought he was going to hit him. But Potter just raised his right hand and rubbed frantically at his lips, as though he thought he could wipe away all the Malfoy cooties.

"What the hell is _wrong_ with you, Malfoy?" he demanded, in strident tones of (what else?) righteous fury.

_Apart from the fact that I want to shag you stupid –I mean, stupider than usual? Absolutely nothing. I'm peachy, Potter. _

Draco licked his lips clean of the taste of Potter and chuckled softly at the levels he'd sunk to. Father would _not_ be pleased.

"Seriously, what's wrong with you?" Potter asked again, still rubbing furiously at his mouth.

Draco felt a familiar thrum of annoyance. He didn't need Harry bloody Potter looking indignant and angry when he'd fucking well kissed _back_. Draco drew himself up to his fullest height and tried to look as disdainful as possible, under the circumstances.

"Nothing you'd understand, _Potter_," he spat, before turning and making what he hoped was a dignified exit. He was going to go up to the Prefect's bathrooms and take the longest, coldest shower this side of Antarctica.

***


End file.
